Russian Red
by saketini
Summary: Canonverse Rusame with lost bets and lipstick kisses.


_I'm very much in love with the headcanon that these two play chess together and I hadn't written from this nerd's point of view in quite a while._

_дорогой/dorogoy - dear/sweetheart_

* * *

"Checkmate."

"No…"

"Yes," a familiar laugh breezed across the phone line. "My Queen to F4 makes checkmate."

America glared at the ceiling as he clacked imaginary pieces across the board in his mind. The glow-in-the-dark stars above his head were slightly out of focus, his glasses having been relegated to the windowsill for the night.

_Bishop to C4, King to H8._

He kicked violently at his blankets when he recognized the moves. Spare English quilts tumbled to the floor with pathetic flopping noises. At least he could pout where the other couldn't see him.

"Fine."

"That means I get to choose," he could hear Russia's smile in his words.

"Don't you have to go to work or something?"

"Yes, but I know what expression you are wearing and want to enjoy it."

"Creep."

Russia paused long enough for America to squint around the room, suspicious that he was being watched from a camera. He burrowed further under the covers.

_Fuck it. If they're there, I'll get them in the morning._

"Spit it out. I know there's something you want, you asked to play."

A hum followed by another protracted silence made America pause his fidgeting. He heard rustling over the line that sounded like a scarf being tugged over a smile.

"Don't make me wait. I know you're making me wait on purpose. Fuck you and your weird fucking hard on for— did you put a camera in here?"

"Lipstick. "

"…You want _lipstick_?"

"No. I want _you_ in lipstick."

One of the stars was missing in Orion's belt — that had to be where the camera was. If he got up, he could probably reach it from standing on his bed. He didn't feel like getting out from under the covers though. There was no guarantee there was even a camera anyway. Maybe there wasn't one. Or maybe it was somewhere else. He'd be annoyed if he got up for nothing. America stretched out his arm, pressing the phone between his ear and the pillow to dig around in his nightstand drawer. He could always just shoot it out.

He also definitely wasn't blushing.

"Fine. Me in lipstick. You send me a plane ticket."

Beretta in hand, he rolled onto his back to aim. It would be hard without his glasses, and the pillows rolling into his face weren't helping, but he'd managed worse. The next pause on the other end of the line was long enough for him to think the other had hung up before he heard another smiled tease.

"We took the bullets out the last time, _дорогой._"

"Creep," he was very much blushing at that point. The trigger felt slick. "Go to work."

"Good night."

"Good morning."

Russia laughed and hung up as America gave in and simply pulled the blankets up over his face for privacy.

* * *

The sales help had greeted his credit card with enthusiasm and painted his face with options. Bubblegum pink and fuchsia were pitched, and black was left in the tray untouched, before they settled on red. Ravishing, revolutionary, _red_. America smiled at the name stamped across the bottom of _the absolute perfect shade, dear _and made his way home to pack.

_You want lipstick? I'll show you lipstick._

Russia emailed him his ticket information. His only companions on the flight were a group of friends returning home after a shopping trip in New York. They laughed and talked about their purchases at Barneys' and Bergdorf's before falling asleep shortly after takeoff. America, by contrast, fidgeted and twitched through the entire flight as he thought of the smooth black cosmetics bag in the overhead compartment.

The blush was back in full force when customs searched his luggage in Moscow and stayed in place as he stomped to the hired car. Russia smiled and pulled him into the backseat after a few words to the driver. His luggage tucked under his feet, America leaned into the other's side when the privacy window was shut. A kiss was dropped into his hair and the pout that he would never admit to wearing softened.

Fingers reached up to trace along his smooth, dry lips.

* * *

When they arrived at Russia's home, America pretended to fall asleep in the living room and heard Russia quietly make his way to his office. They had a routine for his visits: America would take a nap, he would leave to give him space, and later after America woke up they would go to dinner. He waited until the clicking of keys from Russia's typing reached a steady rhythm before ducking into the bathroom.

The cool dark gray tube was bullet-shaped and wrapped with a tiny silver band. He leaned in closer to the mirror, wondering if he should make the strange kissy fishy face he saw women make in movies. He bit at his lower lip before leaning back to swipe it on with a determined twist. The pigment smelled of vanilla and tasted like wax. It made his teeth seem whiter and skin tanner and eyes that much bluer by contrast. The full sensuous curve highlighted in red, a blood dipped smile curled across his lips and he blew his reflection a kiss.

America marched off to find his Russian, tube tucked securely in his pocket.

His shoes clicked along the wooden floors loud enough to catch the other man's attention. He was where he had known he would be, sitting at his desk with the windows open. Russia faced away from the door but didn't turn when he approached. His neck curved slightly as he leaned in further, subtly shielding the screen from America.

"I'm busy," he said. "You were asleep."

America smiled and closed the distance, watching the screens be minimized to hide their contents. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the back of Russia's shoulders and pressing his nose into his hair. The clean scent of bland shampoo lingered in the strands. His whole body felt stiff beneath his relaxed slouch. Russia grabbed at one of his arms, firmly digging in his nails.

America laughed but didn't speak, knowing Russia would take his silence as bait. He felt the overworked tension thread through the muscles under his embrace.

He was yanked forward by the arm in Russia's hold to be slammed into the desk. The sharp edge of the table jammed into his lower back as the other stood over him. Hot pains protested up his spine as fingers twisted into his hair to pull his head back.

"I owed you though, remember?"

— and Russia _stared._

The fingers in America's hair loosened their grip and slid around to his chin to tilt his face up. He laughed again and tried to pull back but Russia held tighter.

"You did."

"Lipstick though. Tell me why?"

He felt the fingers digging into his chin relax and drag up to rest at the side of his face. Russia's thumb brushed lightly at he corner of his ruby mouth.

"No."

"You know I'll find out," America teased back.

Russia didn't comment. America watched his eyes as they settled on his lips. Russia's forced blank expression was betrayed by the color in his skin. Cool pale cheeks dusted pink at the edges and he suddenly wanted to mark them in red.

He grabbed Russia's hand, twining their fingers together to free his face. America's grin was sharp as he leaned forward to whisper a question in the other man's ear.

"Good?"

"…Yes."

His laugh was soft as he rubbed at the inside of Russia's wrist with his thumb, dancing across the pulse.

"…and the color?"

"Very good."

He pressed his tongue into the hollow beneath his ear and slid down to feel the same pulse in his neck. Russia wrapped an arm around the small of his back, pulling him from the table into a flush embrace. His other hand stayed in America's grasp. America pressed a kiss to the skin exposed above his scarf and pulled back to admire the mark he had left. It glistened brightly, possessively over pale scarred skin.

He liked it.

Russia pulled him in tighter as he fell back into the chair and America spread his legs to sit in his lap, grinding down firmly. America tugged off his scarf to expose more skin before pressing in for a kiss.

Red lips felt smooth and slick on burning flesh. He trailed a feathered touch across a collarbone and dipped his tongue along the clavicle to catch salt. Russia groaned softly as he traced lines up his neck. A searing mark was left across his adam's apple, earnestly painting _mine mine mine _into his skin_. _More kisses, hot and red velvet along his jaw before he sunk his teeth into the flesh beneath the spur of bone. He pulled back his mouth to eye his paint, ruby smears of _Russian Red_ down a willing throat.

He felt a hand slide down his back into his jeans to cup and pull him in tight. Russia caught his lower lip between his teeth, biting softly before pulling back to glide a kiss along his soft lips.

"More," he prompted.

"What? Why?"

"Because you lost. Give it to me, I want to do it."

"Creep," America wrinkled his nose but grinned.

He rolled his hips unnecessarily to watch the other's gaze flicker as he reached to grab the tube from his pocket. Russia snatched the lipstick and America liked the satisfied smile he wore when he saw the name. Russia held his chin once more, steadying him as he colored his smile. America watched his eyes as he worked, keeping his mouth pliant and soft under the attention.

"Don't move."

Russia reached forward to unbutton his shirt and his cool touch caused him to shiver lightly. He dragged his nails in soft swirls across America's chest in plotting lines before returning with the lipstick. Cyrillic affection was scrawled across his skin with the vibrant pigment.

_Mine mine mine._

America laughed and Russia bit into his mouth for a sharp kiss with teeth. Hot lips pressed into his mouth until he opened it with a groan. He felt the other's tongue slide along his own before brushing up to his teeth. America wrapped his arms around his neck for support as the zipper on his pants was tugged down. He moaned earnestly into the kiss as he was palmed roughly through the fabric of his underwear. His cock already felt slick with pre-cum, needing only a few strokes to spill across the fabric.

Russia grabbed his hands with a soft _later, tonight _before he was able to return the favor. A box of tissues was pressed into his grasp instead. Russia wiped off America's face with softly mumbled endearments as America held the box, suspicious of his intentions. He reached up to start wiping at the words on his chest before his hands were caught again.

"No, these stay," Russia said.

"Demanding."

"Yes, but you lost."

America frowned back but complied, already spinning plans involving cameras and lips as he reached up to wipe at the other's neck instead.

_Bishop to C4, King to H8…_

"Sure thing, darling."

* * *

_America's wearing my favorite shade of matte lipstick, MAC's Russian Red. It's great for marking things as yours._


End file.
